


With a Little Help From My Friends

by sgam76



Series: A Felicitous Natal Celebration [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Big Brother Mycroft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mycroft Feels, Mycroft-centric, Post-TFP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-06 04:36:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11028765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: Sherlock, as it turns out, is quite correct--Mycroft Holmes isn't nearly as strong as he thinks he is. In the aftermath of that hideous day at Sherrinford, Mycroft's subconscious leads him to the one person it's safe to admit that to.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I liked TFP, I really did. But I found some of Mycroft's explanation for Eurus' placement at Sherrinford less than compelling--at least, from the perspective of an adult, faced with a dangerous child. But then I realized that Mycroft wasn't an adult when it initially happened--and from that point, my mind was off and running. This will likely only be 2 chapters, but I'm not sure yet.
> 
> One additional reminder--I'm of the school that believes that Eurus is the "middle child" that John refers to, and that Sherlock is the youngest. Mycroft's explanation of the years between them was certainly ambiguous, but I understand if you disagree.

Mycroft wasn’t perfectly sure why he was here. He had dismissed his driver (and Greg Lestrade, who hovered for over an hour in a well-meant but maddening fashion) and driven himself to this small house in Surrey, perhaps three miles from his parents’ home. It was very late—too late, in fact, to be calling on the elderly occupants. Yet here he was, sitting indecisively in the drive, waiting for, well, _something_.

_Something_ abruptly interrupted his scattered thought processes and rapped sharply on the car window, startling Mycroft into an embarrassing flinch and sending his heart rate back into the range it had inhabited for far too many hours, earlier in this endless day.

“Myc,” an exasperated voice said, the owner of said voice rapping again on the window. “Open the door!”

Mycroft blinked, unable to process this interaction. His normal thought processes had long since gone; he was, had been, running on backup, emergency protocols—automatic responses he had drilled into himself many years ago, to enable him to function (in an admittedly minimal way) in even the direst circumstances. He thought, distantly, that today probably qualified.

Another voice came, from the front porch of the house. “Paul! Get the boy out of the car and in the house, can’t you? It’s too sodding late for this.”

“Working on it,” his _something_ answered. The rapping on the car window came again.

“Myc. The door. Open. The. Door.” The door handle clicked fruitlessly, the electronic locks still engaged. That, that he could…he reached out, still not quite present, pushed a button, and the locks clicked. The door opened and a hand fell onto his shoulder.

“Thank God. Can you get out, my boy?” He was…he knew that voice. Had known that voice all his life, he was quite sure. But he was still unable to comply. The hand withdrew, and the voice came again, with rather a different tone.

“ _James Mycroft Ambrose Holmes_. Get your arse out of the car!” the voice barked, and, without further ado, his hindbrain had him scooting over and lurching from the car before his limited higher processes could engage. As he stood, swaying a bit, he was immediately enveloped by warm arms and a familiar, welcoming scent of pipe tobacco, potting soil and sandalwood. And with that, the recognition of that scent ( _strongest association with memory_ , a running subroutine prompted), Mycroft knew where he was, and why.

“Brindle,” he said, in a breathy gasp that was all he could manage at the moment.

“Yes, my dear,” Brindle crooned, urging him gently up the path to the front door, where Adrian, Brindle’s partner of almost 40 years, stood with a blanket and a large cup of something hot in his hands. “The guest room’s already made up,” the older man continued, while taking the blanket and draping it carefully around Mycroft’s shoulders, then pushing the cup into Mycroft’s hands and folding them around it. “Do you have a bag?”

Mycroft blinked, unable to formulate a reply.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’, then,” Brindle said. “Ade probably has some things that will fit. We’ll sort it out.”

Something occurred to Mycroft—this seemed too organized, given that he, himself, wasn’t sure when he’d decided to come here. “How…why did you know I was coming?” That didn’t sound quite right, but seemed to get the point across.

“Your ‘network’,” Brindle said, smiling. “Sherlock’s detective friend called Sherlock; Sherlock—well, John Watson, actually, since he answered Sherlock’s phone--called Anthea; Anthea called me. She thought you might head here.” He gestured towards the hot cup of tea in Mycroft’s hands. “Drink that. You need the sugar.”

Mycroft unthinkingly obeyed; it was easier than coming up with a reason not to. The tea was strong, and sweet, and added a bit of warmth in his body that he only now realized had been absent, and desperately needed.

Brindle gently herded Mycroft through the entry and down a short hallway to a well-appointed bedroom. “In case you’ve forgotten, loo’s through there,” he said, pointing to a door next to the windows.  “Ade is bringing some pajamas—they should fit reasonably well, though he’s a bit bigger through the waist than you are, these days. Can you think of anything else you’re going to need, that can’t wait until tomorrow morning?”

Mycroft blinked, while dutifully sipping his tea. Nothing came to mind—about what he might need, or about anything else, in fact. He was saved from having to formulate a reply by the entry of Adrian, pajamas in hand.

Mycroft managed, with some (unsettling) difficulty, to undress, fold his clothing (ruined though the suit was—automatic responses again, stepping in to keep his hands moving without conscious volition), and don the comfortably large pajamas. As he finished, his head suddenly swam, and he sat abruptly on the bed. Brindle, wandering in shortly thereafter, frowned. “All right, then?” he asked, picking up the half-finished cup of tea worriedly and urging Mycroft to finish it. While the younger man sipped as required, Brindle bustled about the room, picking up the folded clothing and dropping a clean flannel and bath towel in its place for later use.

Something in their earlier conversation abruptly popped back into Mycroft’s shattered consciousness and caused a distant frisson of alarm across his overstressed nerves. “Why did John answer Sherlock’s phone?”

“I knew you’d ask that eventually,” Brindle said, with a gentle chuckle. “Apparently, Dr. Watson sedated Lock; nothing serious, but the boy was struggling to deal with everything that had happened, and became quite overwrought--had a bit of a meltdown, in fact.  He’s sleeping now, just as you will be, shortly.”

Feeling unacceptably slow, Mycroft looked over at the now-empty cup of tea, sitting on the nightstand. “You drugged me as well,” he said, in an accusatory tone. Much of the effect was lost, however, as his head swam again, and Brindle pushed him gently over to lie on the clean sheets.

“Yes, I did,” Brindle said softly, and Mycroft’s eyes closed before he could formulate a response.

 

 

 

 

Mycroft woke with a start, followed by a gasp of pain as his head objected violently to the sudden movement. He opened his eyes warily, and looked into the sympathetic face of Brindle.

“I know, I know—it hurts. Downside of most sedatives,” the former diplomat said. “Here, take these.” He handed over a glass of orange juice and two tablets, which Mycroft took without question—Adrian was a retired physician, so their family medicine cabinet was second to none.

“What time is it?” Mycroft asked, not quite ready to try sitting up yet.

“A little past eleven,” came the answer. It tracked with the level of bright sunshine streaming into the room—under normal circumstances, Mycroft would have been at his desk for at least 5 hours by now. It was odd to realize that he felt no particular urgency to hurry back to his office, to his life.

“Has anyone called…asked for me?” he asked.

“Sherlock, about half an hour ago. He just woke up—I think he needed a bit of reassurance. I took care of that, but it would be good if you called him later. A rousing argument might do both of you some good,” Brindle replied.

“When my head doesn’t feel like an explosion is imminent,” Mycroft said, with a rueful smile. It was always a relief to be here—no unnecessary explanations of their complicated family dynamics, and no need to put on an impervious front. Even Sherlock’s presence would have added difficulty that Mycroft just wasn’t prepared for, right now.

“Well, give those tablets about 15 minutes,” Brindle said. “Go take a hot shower in the meantime—that will help things along. Ade is in the kitchen, putting together an over-large brunch. He had some recipes he wanted your opinion on, so he’s made a bit of everything.”

Mycroft sat up slowly, holding one hand to his throbbing temple, and tottered to the bathroom. The shower was bliss—he stayed until the banging in the pipes let him know that the water would shortly turn ice-cold, then climbed reluctantly out. He dressed in the clothes Adrian had supplied—worn jeans and a butter-soft corduroy shirt—and padded to the kitchen.

The couple were bustling about, putting the finishing touches on the meal. Mycroft padded in and looked over Adrian’s shoulder at the dishes on display—crepes with a fruit reduction, and a breakfast casserole that had just come out of the oven and rested on counter to cool.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Adrian,” Mycroft said. He looked closer. “What’s in the casserole?”

“Two kinds of sausage, eggs, shallots, cream and gruyere,” the physician replied. He looked over his shoulder. “Pull the scones out of the oven, will you?”

Mycroft took an oven mitt from the table and complied, sniffing appreciatively at the tray. “Raspberry?”

“With white chocolate and hazelnuts,” Brindle chimed in. “That’s one of the recipes he wanted you to test out for us. We’re thinking about submitting those to the baking competition at the church fete next week.”

They all made quick work of the meal; Mycroft consciously ignored his normal self-imposed food restrictions and enjoyed a bit of everything. He gave Adrian’s recipes a vocal vote of approval, to the man’s visible delight.

When they finished, Adrian insisted on cleaning up, chasing Mycroft and Brindle out of the kitchen. “Go, go,” he tutted. “Neither one of you puts things in the dishwasher properly; I don’t want my best pans half-cleaned.” Mycroft knew it was subterfuge, but went anyway.

By tacit agreement, he and Brindle headed out the back door to the garden. It was Brindle’s pride and joy; he had owned the house before he met Adrian, and the garden had been his first project and his lasting passion, ever since Mycroft could remember. Flowers bloomed everywhere, some of them hybrids that existed only here, so far as Mycroft knew. Fruit trees were just starting to undergo the transition from carrying stunning blossoms to infant fruit, and he could hear the soothing buzz from the beehives at the far reaches of the garden plot. It had been a favorite spot for the Holmes children, whenever they visited, and it soothed Mycroft now, both through its beauty, and through its lifetime of pleasant memories.

They wandered down the paths until they came to the grape arbor, with its comfortable benches. Brindle dropped onto one with a contented sigh, and waved Mycroft to the other.

“I think we have some things to discuss, now that you’re feeling better,” the older man said.

Had it been anyone else, Mycroft would have given an icy look and declined, or, better yet, stalked regally away. But on some level, Mycroft had known this conversation was coming when he (or his subconscious) chose to come here. He had often heard that confession was good for the soul—it was, apparently, time to test that adage.

“So, before it occurs to you to ask, no, I did not know,” Brindle began. “Nor did your dad, of course. I worked with Siger for 34 years—I would never have kept anything like that from him.”

He noted the expression that had crept across Mycroft’s face. “Oh, stop,” he said. “I know it wasn’t your idea, nor your choice, for that matter. This has Rudy Vernet’s fingerprints all over it. And, in case you’re in any doubt, you should never have carried any guilt for the original deception. You were a _child_ , Mycroft—above all else, that’s what I find hardest to reconcile. That man essentially took _both_ of you from your parents, with their unwitting permission.”

“But not without mine,” Mycroft said. “At least in reference to myself. He didn’t tell me that Eurus was alive until after he had sworn me to secrecy, but, once he explained his reasoning, I agreed with him. I…it’s not…,” he trailed off as he suddenly realized something, and looked helplessly at Brindle. “I am not entirely sure I still do,” he said.

“Myc, I’m going to say this just once, and then you can forget all about it if you wish,” Brindle said. “I don’t _like_ Rudy. I never have. He’s an arrogant, condescending prick with delusions of godhood, and a master at manipulation. And if you think that anything that happened when you were 14, anything at all, was actually your choice, you are _wrong_.”

Mycroft stiffened at that. “I assure you, he laid out all of the information in exquisite detail, and gave me the opportunity to withdraw from the conversation completely if I wished. I was far from a typical child—you know what my capabilities were, even at that age. And he knew that my ultimate desire was to follow the family tradition and enter public service—accelerating that process by a few years did me no harm.”

Brindle sighed. “All right, let’s give you a hypothetical here. Suppose that, when he was 14, Sherlock had come to you and said that a much older man, a very intelligent, very manipulative older man, had convinced him to enlist in a conspiracy of silence about something Sherlock initially found distressing, but had now become convinced was necessary. And, oh, by the way, said man had then offered him the chance to begin training for his dream job, ten years too early—effective immediately. Remove _yourself_ from the situation, and consider just my scenario, if you can. What would your first thought be?”

Mycroft was shocked by his sudden, visceral reaction to that—a virtual chorus of “ _No_ ”.

Brindle saw his face, and nodded. “Thought so.”

Mycroft couldn’t concede all of this, however. “Sherlock is not me, though. He is mildly autistic; he had, has, sensory issues; Eurus’ actions did incalculable damage to him from which he has never fully recovered. He was inherently more vulnerable as a child that I ever was; he still is.”

This was more than Brindle could tolerate. “My God, Myc. Do you think for one second that _you_ weren’t damaged as well?”

“I…well, I…” Mycroft suddenly found himself tongue-tied. The events of today had certainly dragged all of those memories out into the daylight for the first time in decades; he hadn’t been lying when he told John Watson how very distressing those memories were.

“You forget, I was an adult when all of it started; probably the only adult involved who really understood what was going on, with the exception of your parents,” Brindle said. “But I didn’t have their instinctive desire to protect _all_ of their children. I love you and your brother; you know that. You are the children Ade and I could never have. But your sister…I wanted to love her, Myc. She was a beautiful little thing, and, until Sherlock came along, I never thought that my relationship with her would be any different than my relationship with you. But her…oddness was evident very early on. Your mum used to worry about her, even as an infant. She would vary between screaming for hours, and being absolutely inert—just staring at everything, without a sound. She walked at not quite 6 months, and began talking shortly thereafter, though most of what she said made no sense—just trying out words. But then, when she had just turned a year old, your brother arrived, early and fragile. And virtually overnight, Eurus _changed_.”

Brindle settled back onto his bench; Mycroft matched him. He had never heard this story, and found himself wanting to hear it. To know what it had been like, from an adult’s perspective.

“You probably remember that your grandmother had taken Eurus for a bit when your mum ran into trouble with her pregnancy,” Brindle continued. “What you may not remember is that Eurus stayed there for almost a month afterward—until Sherlock was big and strong enough to come home, in fact, since your mum was spending every available moment at the neonatal unit, and your dad worked from home so he could take care of you and keep the household running.”

Mycroft _did_ remember that, now that it was called to mind. He had asked Father why Eurus hadn’t come home yet, and been told that Mummy couldn’t very well care for her while staying with Sherlock, and Father himself just wasn’t who Eurus wanted. She had shown an early preference for Mummy, to the point where she often howled in outrage when Father held her. Grandmere, on the other hand, was eminently acceptable, so Eurus’ stay with her was extended.

Mycroft also remembered, quite vividly, Sherlock’s homecoming. Tiny, wriggling, and squeaking periodically (as then-Mycroft termed it—Sherlock had been so minute, his lungs so small, that his cry was not loud enough to drown out the radio in the car), and in need of constant vigilance since he would sometimes forget to breathe when asleep. Mycroft had secretly spent the first three nights hiding in the baby’s room, terrified that the adults would somehow sleep through the alarm from the apnea monitor).

Oddly, though, he found he had no memory of Eurus’ return; she was gone, then she wasn’t. Perhaps it had happened while he was with his temporary tutor (the weedy little man dragooned into teaching him during Mummy’s indisposition). He did remember Grandmere staying for a few days, after Sherlock came home; presumably she had brought Eurus home at the same time, then.

Mycroft shook himself from his momentary reverie—Brindle was still speaking.

“I came to stay for the party your parents held to celebrate Sherlock’s leaving hospital,” he said. “I’m sure you remember that,” the older man added, with a sly grin. And yes, Mycroft did remember—he’d disgraced himself by eating too many fairy cakes and making himself ill. He also remembered that Brindle had been kind then, as well.

“I stayed in the spare room next to Lockie’s,” Brindle continued. “When I went upstairs to change before dinner, I heard a thump from the baby’s room and went in to check—your mum had just put him down for a kip and headed downstairs, and the new nanny hadn’t arrived yet, so…I peeked in, just in case, and found Eurus had gotten a box and dragged it over to the cot, and was standing there, looking at your brother. Don’t know how she’d gotten away from your grandmother or your mum—doesn’t really matter, in the end. But there she was, looking down—but not smiling, or trying to touch, or any number of other things a typical toddler would do in reaction to seeing a tiny baby. She was…I don’t know what to call it, other than _assessing_. She was _fascinated_. And, to be honest, it was one of the most unsettling things I’ve ever seen.”

Mycroft realized there was a question that needed to be asked. “You saw my sister from the time she was born. You were around at the time of Victor’s disappearance, and the fire—the first fire. You say that you disagree with Rudy’s solution. I’ll turn the question back to you, then: what would _you_ have done? What alternative was there, given her capabilities?” He was shocked to hear stress in his voice; he was becoming, well, _upset_. This was mortifying, but he couldn’t seem to stop. Before he could edit himself, the memory bubbled to the top and out of his mouth. “Before she set the fire, she wedged Sherlock’s door shut from the outside. I could hear him screaming, but couldn’t open it. Father had to kick it in.” He was appalled at this sudden lapse of control; he felt his cheeks heat up with colour.

Brindle reached out and rested a hand on his knee. “You won’t like it,” he said simply. “It’s horrible, and sad, and a true tragedy. But if she had been my child, after the fire, I would have had her committed to a caring institution, one appropriate for children but completely secure—and I would have authorized the staff to keep her heavily drugged for the rest of her natural life.”

Mycroft gaped. “But…that’s a…that wasn’t an option,” he finally said weakly. “She was too dangerous. You know that. She could get out of any normal institution with ease.”

“Now, yes,” Brindle said. “But then? Jesus Christ, Mycroft, she was _seven years old_. She’s a psychopath, yes—a terrible accident of birth, and the reason she was, is, so dangerous, especially when paired with her level of genius. But once the first dose of heavy medication hit her system, she would have been unable to formulate a plan for escape, and she certainly couldn’t have overpowered anyone physically in any event. So long as that kind of regimen was rigorously adhered to, she could have been safe, and even, on some level, happy—she could have had books, videos, music. The rest of you could have visited, if you wished; she might not have recognized you anymore, but your parents could have been content in knowing she was safe and healthy—and that you were safe from her.”

And Mycroft suddenly found himself completely adrift—it was as if a gaping hole had opened up in his rational, logical existence. Because Brindle was _right_ —completely, utterly correct; and Mycroft realized that, until the horrific events of today, he had never once looked at Rudy’s actions, at his own actions, in the cold, clear fashion he employed every day of his life. He had compartmentalized the entire issue under a tidy little file called “Sherrinford”, and only given thought to the end requirement—ensuring that his sister remained securely confined, as she had always been—without once considering the origins of that confinement.

He lurched to his feet, needing to move, needing to be away from this conversation. “I have to…I need to walk,” he stammered, pulling away from Brindle’s concerned hands. “I’ll be…I need to walk,” he repeated, and strode away, towards the back gate of the garden that opened onto the nature preserve behind the house.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft encounters some unexpected guests, but that's not necessarily a bad thing.

Mycroft wasn’t sure how long he had walked; several hours, certainly. When he came back to the little house it was almost dark, the air becoming chilly and damp. The kitchen door was standing open, though, despite the chill, a bright, warm glow against the evening sky.

Adrian was at the stove, stirring something that smelled of garlic and herbs. He looked over his shoulder at Mycroft as he entered and smiled. “Spaghetti and meatballs,” he said. “Since we ate such a big lunch, I didn’t feel like we needed anything fancy for dinner.”

Adrian didn’t express concern about Mycroft’s absence, or ask how he was feeling. That was something Mycroft had always appreciated about the two of them: neither Brindle nor his partner ever pushed him to express things he was uncomfortable in voicing. (Not as a rule, anyway—even Mycroft had to admit that this morning’s conversation had been necessary, even though he would never have initiated it on his own).

The doctor turned back to his pan again, before tossing another comment over his shoulder. “The others are in the sitting room—why don’t you join them? It’s still 20 minutes or so until this will be ready, and I have things I need to finish up first.”

That was a trifle unsettling—who were the “others”? Mycroft had hoped for a time to himself—a longer time than he’d had, at least. He walked through to the sitting room with a fair amount of reluctance.

He was mildly surprised to find that “the others” were his brother and John Watson. The first—he had expected an invigorating, caustic phone call from his brother, but not a physical confrontation. The second was very surprising indeed—to the best of his knowledge, Sherlock had never so much as mentioned Brindle’s existence to John before. His brother had a tendency to put people into boxes—Brindle fell into the box marked “childhood”, and no one, outside of the immediate family, fell into that box with him. But then, as Sherlock had (rudely) pointed out, he now considered John part of that immediate family.

John and Brindle didn’t look up as Mycroft entered—they were engrossed in a book of Adrian’s photos of the garden. The physician had taken up photography when he retired from practice, and had found a second calling in his camera—his photos now commanded high sums at several art galleries, and Brindle was justifiably proud of his partner’s efforts.

Sherlock, though—Sherlock was hunched across the room on the sofa, knees pulled up tightly to his chest and his arms wrapped around them. He still wore his coat, despite the comfortable temperature in the room—Mycroft recognized this as a time when Sherlock needed the coat for protection, not warmth. He looked exhausted and haunted, and Mycroft hated it. Yet one more thing that was, at least in part, his fault.

Mycroft walked over and sat carefully on the far end of the sofa, allowing Sherlock the option of interacting if he wished to do so. Brindle had mentioned that Sherlock had had a true meltdown last night—the first in several years, as far as Mycroft knew. And it was, if one included the event at Sherrinford, the second one in a single day. It would not be surprising if Sherlock was near-mute for the next day or so, if he followed the pattern of his teen years, when meltdowns had been distressingly common.

They sat in uncomfortable silence for five minutes, before Brindle touched John’s arm and gestured back to the kitchen. John, looking around at the tableau on the couch, nodded at Mycroft sympathetically and went.

Sherlock continued to glare at the floor while clutching his knees; Mycroft, after a further period of silence, sighed and went to look at the book Brindle and John had left behind—he hadn’t seen this one yet. He took it back to the couch and sat beside his silent brother. He had flipped through pages for several minutes when he was startled to hear Sherlock’s voice, raspy and hoarse.

“I frightened Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “I don’t remember; I don’t really remember much after the time we arrived back at Baker Street.” He paused, closed his eyes briefly, then continued. “I am told that, during my mental break, I announced that I was going out to find a dealer. John restrained me, by force, as I was quite insistent, and then sedated me.” He stopped and took several shaky breaths before continuing. “I am now back to needing minders for the next two weeks, evidently. When I couldn’t speak with you this morning, I was…I became…John decided that I needed to see you, but I am not fit to go anywhere by myself at present. So he brought me.”

Mycroft resisted the urge to touch his brother—when Sherlock was like this, it was often too much input to bear. “I’m very sorry,” he said, meaning every word. “I was still asleep when you called. If I had known that would distress you, I would have called as soon as I got up.” Sherlock nodded, still glaring at the floor.

“It must have been very difficult for you,” Sherlock said suddenly. “Having not one, but two demented siblings. Being the ‘normal’ one must have been quite uncomfortable.”

Mycroft’s mouth acted before his brain could engage. “Never describe yourself as _demented_ in my presence again,” Mycroft snapped, as Sherlock jerked his head up and looked, briefly, at his brother before flicking his gaze away again.

“I…apologies,” Mycroft finally managed, feeling his face flame. He forced himself to continue, in a very different tone of voice. “You are not neuro-typical; that sometimes makes things difficult for you, and it is hard to watch you struggle with it, and to observe your less-optimal coping mechanisms. But you are no more ‘demented’ than I am ‘normal’.” He paused, then reached into their shared past. “It’s as Mummy used to say--’normal’ is often a code word for ‘dull’. I may be arrogant, odd and condescending, but I am _never_ dull.”

Sherlock gave a rusty chuckle, then lapsed into silence again.

“Can you come and sit in the kitchen with us?” Mycroft asked, reluctant to leave Sherlock alone. “We will understand if you can’t eat, and no one will be upset with you. Perhaps we could chat in the morning—I don’t think either of us feel like it this evening.” He stopped, unsure. “You were planning to spend the night, weren’t you?”

“John thinks it wise,” Sherlock said, making his first full eye contact since Mycroft arrived. “I am apparently too delicate to contemplate a second hour-long car trip in one day.” He gave a tiny, wry smile before flipping his gaze back down.

When Brindle came in to call them to dinner, Sherlock silently unfolded himself and came along, seating himself in a chair in the corner of the kitchen; food, apparently, was not to be contemplated, but company was acceptable so long as no one required him to participate. Mycroft noticed John casting repeated looks over at Sherlock, and carefully reached out to touch John’s hand to catch his attention before giving a tiny shake of his head; whether John realized it or not, Sherlock was aware of the looks and was becoming agitated. The Holmes family had learned very early on that, in these moods, all Sherlock wanted was to be _invisible_. John, to his credit, raised his eyebrows but gave a quick nod, and turned his attention to the other occupants of the table.

It was a surprisingly comfortable meal; certainly, the level of ease Mycroft had with Brindle and Adrian helped, but John was much less confrontational than he had been in recent days. Mycroft had been afraid that there would be constraint between them, after his own attempt to suborn Sherlock into shooting his brother in lieu of his friend; the things he had said, slighting and demeaning, about John—he wouldn’t have been surprised if John bristled and snarled his way through their first contact. Their relationship would always be somewhat spiky—they were too different, and neither of them much open to change. But this—this _accord_ , in the current moment, was welcome.

After dinner, they retired to the sitting room; Brindle regaled John with tales of the Holmes brothers’ childhood, going so far as to drag out photo albums, to John’s visible delight. Sherlock returned to his spot on the far end of the sofa, hunched in the corner like a large, predatory bird. Mycroft was surprised, and secretly pleased, to glance over after an hour or so of desultory conversation to see that his brother had gradually slid down, and was now folded in on himself, eyes closed and breathing slow and steady.

John noticed Mycroft’s look and glanced over himself, giving a relieved sigh. “Thank God,” he said quietly. “The only sleep he got last night was when he was sedated, and that only lasted about 3 hours since I was afraid to give him much.”

“Probably wise,” Mycroft agreed. “If the events of yesterday have reawakened his cravings, the less exposure he has to any kind of drugs, the better.” He gestured to John’s phone, sitting on the coffee table. “If you will send me the schedule for minders, I will give you my selections for dates and times. I can certainly take two or three shifts a week; evenings are easiest, but not essential.”

John blinked, but nodded. Mycroft reflected that it was not very flattering that the man assumed Mycroft unwilling to assist Sherlock in this way. To be fair, though, it was a reflection of Mycroft’s changing relationship with his brother that he wished to be included in this effort. He had only served one session in Sherlock’s previous comedown period after the Culverton Smith affair, and that had ended in shouting and thrown crockery.

Shortly thereafter, they seemed to all come to an unspoken consensus that it was time for bed. Adrian suddenly appeared with a familiar heavy, grey blanket that he dropped quietly on the couch between Sherlock and Mycroft, before turning to John to let him know that his bedroom was prepared.

John stood and moved to the couch, clearly intending to wake Sherlock and shepherd him along as well. Mycroft, somewhat reluctantly, intervened.

“It would be best if he stays with me tonight,” he said, picking up the blanket and handing it off to John, who took it, looking surprised at the weight. “It’s a sensory aid,” Mycroft said. “The weight helps Sherlock ground himself; in a meltdown, he feels completely disconnected from the world, in both body and mind. Weight and mild restraint help, if used properly, and I can perhaps prevent him from escalating if he has another incident before morning.” He reached over to gently nudge Sherlock awake; the detective gave a blurry look around, seeming only half-aware. Mycroft took the blanket from John and handed it to his brother, who clutched it to his chest and stood silently, as if waiting for instructions. “I can teach you the method tomorrow; it would be wise if you knew it, since these things tend to run in clusters. His own blanket is in the bottom of his wardrobe, unless he has moved it. He will be better able to tell you himself tomorrow, I expect.”

John nodded, said a soft goodnight to Sherlock, and followed Adrian up the stairs, while Mycroft gently herded his silent brother towards the downstairs guest room.

Mycroft managed to relieve Sherlock of his coat before nudging him towards the bed, but didn’t even attempt a change of clothes; under the coat his brother was already wearing his oldest t-shirt and sleep trousers, the seams turned inside-out. Someone (John? Mrs. Hudson?) had made a wise guess there, after coaxing Sherlock out of his ruined clothing last night. Before turning out the light and climbing into bed himself, Mycroft pulled a chair over next to Sherlock’s side of the bed, placed the weighted blanket in the seat, and made sure his brother saw it and acknowledged that he knew it was there.

Mycroft read for a bit before turning off his own light; Sherlock never moved beside him, sinking quickly back into deep sleep. He woke to movement, sometime in the depths of the night, and rolled quickly to his side towards the sound. He stopped, though, when he saw that Sherlock had reached out for the weighted blanket and was in the process of wrapping himself tightly in it, until the only portions of himself that were visible were his pale, bony feet on top of the duvet.

“Do you need more?” he asked, very quietly. Loud sounds were a definite trigger if Sherlock was on the edge. No sound came, but the top of the pile of blanket shifted from side to side. No, then. Eventually, after no more movement came from his brother for more than 15 minutes, Mycroft drifted uneasily back to sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

Mycroft woke early; unlike yesterday, his internal clock worked efficiently, and roused him as per his typical schedule at just before 6. Sherlock’s side of the bed was empty; not necessarily a bad thing, but ascertaining his brother’s location was a priority if no one else was up. Mycroft dealt with the necessary in the en suite and pulled Adrian’s dressing gown over his pajamas before padding quickly out to the kitchen.

He was relieved to see Sherlock, apparently calm, sitting at the kitchen table with the morning newspaper. Appearances could be deceptive, however. So—

“Give me a number, please. One to ten?” Mycroft asked, as he moved to put the kettle on and searched out the makings of a quick breakfast—croissants, honey and butter, placing them in front of Sherlock on the table before seating himself as well.

“For which issue?” Sherlock said, just short of rudely. “Drugs or insanity?”

“I have already asked that you stop saying that,” Mycroft replied calmly. “Give me a number for both, please.”

Sherlock sniffed dismissively, but answered nonetheless. “Drugs, a six, shading towards seven. The other, a two. I have placed the blanket in the laundry; it’s a trifle musty, and I don’t expect to need it today.”

That was encouraging, on one front. The drugs answer, though, was less than optimal. “Do you have your medication with you? Or does John?”

Sherlock picked up a croissant and dipped it into the honey pot, knowing that it drove his brother mad. “I am sure he has it—he insisted on bringing his full kit, even though I told him Adrian already has one. I don’t need it yet, as long as you find something to distract me with until he wakes up.”

Mycroft moved the honey pot out of his brother’s reach before spooning out a generous portion onto Sherlock’s plate. He looked over Sherlock’s shoulder to the brightening sky over the garden. “Let’s go for a walk when we're finished, shall we? You can check out the hives; I know you weren’t up to it yesterday.”

“Oh, it’s time for  _that_ conversation, is it? Very subtle work,” Sherlock sniped.

“I presumed you would prefer that we talk in private,” Mycroft said mildly. “Was I wrong?”

Sherlock flushed, and busied himself with his tea, before sighing, “No.”

 

 

 

 

They strolled in near-silence for some time. Sherlock was still not inclined to speech unprompted, though Mycroft hoped that his brother would initiate at least part of this discussion. They visited the hives, staying at a safe distance, and then wandered out to the nature preserve before strolling back, seating themselves at the same bench that Mycroft had shared yesterday (had it been only yesterday?) with Brindle.

They sat in silence for nearly five minutes before Sherlock finally spoke. “We are absurd. You realize this.”

“Unlikely, more than absurd,” Mycroft protested. “And, for the most part, it is a simple accident of birth.” He didn’t realize until it was out of his mouth how very unfortunate that statement was, under the circumstances.

Sherlock gave a small chuckle. “I would find that funny, were it not for the fact that I believe it was inadvertent on your part.”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied. “I am afraid I lack your facility to intentionally find humor in the macabre.”

His brother sobered abruptly. “I found nothing about yesterday humorous, I assure you. Nor did John.”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I know. I will find the time today to apologize to John yet again. I don’t…I wish to ensure that he knows that the things I said were not…I don’t actually believe them true.” He was finding this conversation even more difficult than he expected.

“To John?” Sherlock said, in tones of high dudgeon. “Apologize to _John_? I expect an abject apology to _me_ , thank you.” Mycroft raised his eyebrows, and Sherlock’s scowl grew. “You _tried to make me shoot you_ ,” he said, spitting out the words. He ducked his head before continuing. “Twat,” he added darkly.

Mycroft found himself abruptly furious in his turn. “You _tried to kill yourself in front of me!_ ” he shouted. And, as an angry afterthought, “Prick.”

Sherlock’s head shot up, shocked at the very idea of his prim brother using vulgarity. And just that, seeing that expression, set Mycroft off. He could feel his face creasing in a grin, then he sputtered into a ragged laugh—and Sherlock joined him, until they were leaning weakly against each other, laughing until they were completely out of breath.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Sherlock gasped, when they had wound down to helpless chuckles. “We’re not absurd. We’re completely ridiculous.”

“Agreed,” Mycroft replied.

 

 

 

 

By the time John wandered out, 20 minutes later, they had calmed, and laid some of their ghosts to rest. Sherlock still resisted the idea that Eurus was unreachable; Mycroft insisted that his sole concern was the safety of those around her, including (especially) Sherlock. He had, however, reluctantly agreed to approve Sherlock’s visitation (supervised, with violin as their sole point of contact) on a probationary basis.

They were agreed that revealing the news to the senior Holmeses required careful handling, but should take place as soon as was feasible, with both of them in attendance (a circumstance for which Mycroft was profoundly grateful, especially since Sherlock himself had insisted that that aspect was non-negotiable). Sherlock suggested the following week; he knew that John would be unlikely to approve that kind of expedition any sooner, and wanted to be sure, in his own mind, that he was once again stable before entering into yet another high-stress situation.

“Possibly, but perhaps the week after,” Mycroft said, as casually as he could manage. “I find I need to make a trip to France first.”  He would say no more, despite Sherlock’s artfully raised eyebrows. This was something he needed to deal with on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more chapter, most likely. Bet you can figure out where Mycroft is going...


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft goes back to the beginning. He has discovered that very little is exactly as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short Epilogue to follow.

Mycroft hadn’t been to Paris in nearly two years; he enjoyed the architecture and museums, but not the crowds and congestion. While his past visits had usually included both business and pleasure—touring, perhaps a visit to some of Mummy’s family—this trip wasn’t quite business, but certainly, included no elements of pleasure whatsoever.

He arrived at his destination just at sundown, after a busy morning tying up loose ends in London; the beauty of having access to a private jet. He still had to contend with heavy traffic from the airport, but had used the time to further refine what he intended to say—he needed to be dispassionate, clear, concise. His host would allow for nothing less.

Mycroft had always loved this flat; it was a family property, and in his childhood, had been Grandmere’s winter home, the site of many a Christmas fete or birthday celebration. Now it had passed to her eldest child, along with the bulk of Grandmere’s French assets—her half-English children, dual citizens all, had decided to stay in England, but for this one notable exception.

Rudy Vernet was now staring 80 in the face. Despite his age, he remained vibrant, brilliant and arrogant to a fault. He claimed to be “semi-retired” from MI6, but that was a fantasy maintained for the bureaucratic dullards who cared about retirement standards and chains of command. In reality, Rudy was master of all he surveyed; the _eminence grise_ of the service, largely content to involve himself solely in operations of the highest complexity and highest stakes, very much at his own discretion. His move to France had removed him from the tedium of managing day-to-day operations, and gave him the pleasing experience of having senior MI6 staff make regular pilgrimages to Paris or Mimizan* to secure his invaluable insights.

Mycroft had often heard imposing, elderly statesmen referred to as “old lions”. While Rudy certainly fell into that demographic, his uncle was more fine-boned than leonine; Mycroft, as a child, had thought the old man looked like a bird of prey, perhaps a harpy eagle, with his sharp eyes and beaky nose (Mycroft’s nose as well, unfortunately—the only Vernet characteristic visible in his otherwise very Holmesian physique).

Mycroft spent the five minutes of his ride up in the lift mentally dampening his reactions; cold, clear logic was required, no matter how much he found himself wanting to ask questions that were, frankly, awash in sentiment. There would perhaps be time for that once the main business had been addressed, but he would need to lead with a dispassionate series of queries based on some of the very secretive research he had undertaken over the past week. No one, not even Anthea, had been allowed to assist in that research; Mycroft could think of no other way to guarantee that word of his review would not reach his uncle prematurely.

After Mycroft pressed the discreet button to the left of the doorway, the door opened instantly to the face of James Caxton, Rudy’s longtime bodyguard-cum-manservant. Mycroft had never liked him; he was sly, and prone to make subtly slighting remarks to and about Sherlock (and, on occasion, Mycroft, before Mycroft grew old enough and influential enough to make such forays unwise) without any real provocation.

The older man smiled, now, with every indication of pleasure. “Mycroft,” he said, holding out a hand which Mycroft shook in a perfunctory fashion. “I didn’t know you were coming,” he said, while ushering Mycroft through to the main living areas, “did Anthea forget to call? There’s nothing in his appointment book.”

“No,” Mycroft said calmly. “It was a sudden impulse. Not related to any current operations.” He coolly held his umbrella out for the bodyguard to take before continuing. “It is, however, of a sensitive nature. I must ask that you leave us alone for a time; you understand.” It was not a question, or a request.

Caxton’s smile became fixed; his pause before responding was just a bit too long. “Of course,” he said finally. “Though I’ll need to hear that from Himself.” He lowered his chin and looked through his lashes. “You understand.”

Mycroft resisted the sudden urge to wipe the smile off the other man’s face; clearly, he had spent too much time around Sherlock these past few days. “By all means,” he said. “Why don’t we go in together, and get that out of the way? I’m sure you have some light cleaning you can occupy yourself with while we talk.”

Caxton gave a tight chuckle, but his cheeks flushed with pique. Mycroft allowed himself a brief glow of satisfaction. He turned and walked to Rudy’s office without waiting for the other man to lead the way.

 

 

 

 

Rudy sat behind his massive oak desk, dressed in his typical bespoke suit and very much aware of the imposing picture he presented. It was one of the first things Mycroft had noticed about him, as a child—Rudy always looked, as Mummy said, “as if he’s waiting for his close-up”. He was not handsome, precisely—no one with the Vernet nose could ever be termed “handsome”—but he had been, was, striking in his way. And, like Sherlock, he had never been averse to using his appearance to influence his audience.

As Mycroft and Caxton entered, Rudy stood and came out to greet his nephew, wearing a smile that was both artificial and genuine at the same time. In his long apprenticeship, Mycroft had learned when Rudy was shamming emotion—in this case, Rudy was genuinely pleased to see him, but was also emphasizing that pleasure because he had sensed Caxton’s discomfiture. Mycroft had never understood the dynamic between the two, nor cared. Today, he simply wanted Caxton gone, and (very calmly) said so to his uncle, who stared momentarily before waving an airy hand towards Caxton and the door.

Once the door closed behind the bodyguard, Rudy walked over to pour two glasses of brandy, handing one to Mycroft before sipping from his own. “I expected you last week,” he said, when Mycroft failed to break the silence.

“I presume you have seen the reports from the events at Sherrinford then,” Mycroft replied, in part to test Rudy’s response—guilt? Anger? Perhaps (unlikely, but possible) sadness?

As it happened, it was none of the above.

“Mmm,” Rudy said, sipping again. “It’s unfortunate, certainly. Such disruption; it’s unforgiveable that the governor should have failed to keep things contained. I understand that you and your brother were considerably inconvenienced as well.”

Mycroft somehow managed not to say the things that ran through his mind, and (with great difficulty) suppressed his true reaction to that speech. But he couldn’t let this pass—this staggeringly tone-deaf reaction to those horrifying events.

“Inconvenienced?” he asked, struggling to hold his dispassionate tone. “I think that’s rather disingenuous, uncle. Either Sherlock or I could have easily died; because of Eurus’ machinations, Sherlock is once again struggling with old demons that he had thought defeated. I watched the governor, a colleague of several years, beg for death at my hands; watched his suicide, watched the uncaring murder of his wife despite his sacrifice.” He paused, reining his reactions in even more firmly. “We bear considerable guilt in this situation. I am here to discuss that, and, perhaps, to come to some resolution about what steps should be taken in response.”

Rudy looked nonplussed, briefly, before returning to a more neutral mien. “I’m unsure what you mean,” he said. “Your sister is once again contained, in, presumably, more competent hands than previously. You and your brother, despite his lifelong tendency towards drama and histrionics, are essentially unharmed. What more needs doing?”

“ _Histrionics_...,” Mycroft began, before stopping himself once again. Calm and collected, he reminded himself sternly. He ruthlessly turned his attention back to the matter at hand.

“I think it prudent to undertake a full review of the history of my sister in regards to her incarceration, both in the past and for the future. Given that the initial impetus for her move to Sherrinford predates my involvement, I thought to come to the source rather than rely on secondhand reports from 30 years ago.” That sounded, he thought, rational and non-confrontational.

“I must shortly inform my parents of Eurus’ situation; her survival, her location, and my own involvement as well as your own,” he continued. “I would prefer to go into that conversation sure of my facts.”

“Why would you want to do that?” Rudy asked, genuinely confused. Mycroft blinked, opened his mouth, closed it again. This conversation was not at all what he had expected.

Finally, when the silence had stretched for rather too long, Mycroft grabbed at his frayed wits and responded. “Because it is clear that secrecy has served all of us ill,” he said, realizing that this was the first time he had actually defined what it was that had brought him here. “It began with what I am sure were the best, the kindest of intentions. But we know what is said about the road to Hell; I now can personally verify the truth of that particular adage.”

Rudy snorted. “Kindness was not one of my primary concerns at the time,” he said caustically. “Nor should it be yours. This isn’t like you, my boy. We both live in the _real_ world. Your parents, intelligent as they may be, would have never agreed to take the essential steps to both secure your sister and preserve her utility. I doubt that’s changed; we can’t afford their potential interference.”

A distant alarm had settled in the nether regions of Mycroft’s brain. Something…this was not what he recalled. “Utility?” he said, with an uncharacteristic uncertainty. “I don’t remember that being part of the conversation, when you and I first discussed this.” Discussed a great many things, including Mycroft’s oh-so-flattering early recruitment, by the uncle he idolized.

“Well, of course not,” Rudy said. “At that juncture, you were much too young to fully grasp the implications of your sister’s abilities, and still shaken by her apparent ‘death’, despite her determined attempt to kill you and the rest of your family. And, to be truthful, I couldn’t be sure that her mental defect wouldn’t progress to the point that she became catatonic, or harmed herself in some disabling fashion. It was at least two years before she was of any use, in fact—a 7-year-old has limitations, after all, no matter how brilliant.”

“Why were there no therapy reports in her file from that time?” Mycroft asked. “I undertook a review of that early period as part of my research for this meeting. The specialist was supposed to see her at least 3 times a week—I remember the discussion quite clearly. Yet the only material I could find was a record of periodic training in current events and political structures, conducted by you, in fact. I wish to understand how Eurus was able to develop her frankly startling understanding of a wide range of subjects, given the highly-restricted access she was allowed to written materials and any outside media. Genius, in an educational vacuum such as she inhabited, can’t make up a world from whole cloth.” This was what had disturbed Mycroft the most, once he began his review. Someone, somehow, had taught his sister, or at least supplied her with a means of researching the outside world.

The old man chuckled. “Well, my educational efforts were perhaps a little more wide-ranging than those reports would lead you to believe. And the specialist—let’s just say her recommendations for a variety of psychoactive drugs would have dampened your sister’s potential. Even the doctor admitted that no treatment available would have ‘cured’ Eurus of her psychopathy; under the circumstances, there was little point in continuing.”

“So, a little girl was abandoned to a glass cage, with her violin and precious little else? A little girl, _your niece_ , who was mentally ill and could not be held responsible for her actions?” Mycroft said, anger managing to bleed into his tone despite his efforts to suppress it. “And her sole interaction with a caring adult was in the context of enhancing her future _utility_?” Even as he said it, he heard himself, in conversation with Sherlock on that horrifying Christmas Day, commenting on his brother’s “utility” as well. He wondered, abruptly, how much of the person he was came from this horrible old man.

A frown furrowed Rudy’s patrician brow. “This is not how you were trained, Mycroft. The fact that Eurus was my niece was immaterial, beyond the fact that it gave me early insight into her extraordinary abilities. And I could hardly be characterized as a ‘caring adult’, in the way in which you appear to use the term. Eurus Holmes was, is, a monster; romanticizing her inherent defect as ‘mental illness’ implies that there was a potential for some effective treatment. Her saving grace was her genius; it made my substantial investment in her care worthwhile.”

He dropped his chin and looked severely at Mycroft. “This is unbecoming, Mycroft, and far outside your normal standards. I taught you better than this. Be what I made you, boy--caring is never an advantage, and certainly not in this case.”

Mycroft, through the haze of fury that had swept through him, recognized distantly that there was a time when that comment would have had him stammering to placate his uncle—to prove that Mycroft was, after all, the cool, calculating Machiavelli, his uncle’s true heir.

He shoved that fury ruthlessly away, and fell into his default mode in the face of attack—bland indifference and arrogance. As the anger left, though, realization followed.

“Sherlock was _right_ ,” he breathed, once again struggling for calm.

Rudy sneered. “And what, exactly, was Mellie’s little drug addict right about, pray tell?” It was a warning: _I have my sister’s ear._ A veiled threat to tell Mummy Rudy’s own version of events before Mycroft could intervene—a version, presumably, that would look very different from the truths Mycroft was only now understanding.

“He was afraid of you when he was small,” Mycroft said, memory flowing over him without conscious intent. “He said you were ‘empty’.” He paused, looking at the past without his childhood filters in place. “You didn’t like him either.”

The old man raised his eyebrows. “I am struggling to find the relevance in all of this, Mycroft. Sherlock’s fear of me is hardly new, and I doubt he attaches any importance to the fact that I didn’t, don’t, like him. I’m unsure how that makes him ‘right’.” The sneer was back.

“He said you were like Eurus,” Mycroft said. “Better able to hide it, perhaps more capable of understanding some minimal emotions—loyalty, pride, desire, at least insofar as they pertained to yourself—but unable to love or understand others’ insistence on loving those close to them.”

“Love?” Rudy barked incredulously. “Can you hear yourself? Neither you nor I are interested in _love_ , Mycroft—you are as I made you. We have _duty_ , we have _loyalty_. We have a greater role in this world—we can’t involve ourselves with the concerns of other people. It’s a knowing sacrifice that both of us made.” He looked earnestly at Mycroft, eyes intent. “I allowed you your maudlin attachment to your brother—wasn’t that enough?”

Mycroft ignored the last; the earnestness, the slight to Sherlock—both were tactics, attempts to distract. “But it was never a sacrifice for you, was it?” he asked, though it was more a statement than a question.

Rudy abruptly dropped both his earnest look, and his chin, looking up through his lashes in a way eerily like Sherlock. He gave a sly grin. “No, actually. Sherlock is more perceptive than I gave him credit for, apparently. Your sister’s current breakdown has left a void in our predictive abilities; perhaps your obsessive involvement with him has more value than I realized.” It was another veiled threat.

“Do not contact Sherlock. Do not attempt to leverage Sherlock into returning to work for MI6. Do not try to manipulate him into contacting _you_ ,” Mycroft said, with murder in his heart.

The old man’s chin went back up in a picture of affronted pride. “I hardly think that is your decision,” he said, in icy tones. “And how, exactly, would you attempt to enforce this embargo?”

“I will tell my mother what happened during Sherlock’s last mission with me, when he was 19,” Mycroft snarled. “And your direct involvement in those events.” Because Mycroft’s research, after all, had not been restricted solely to his uncle’s involvement with Eurus. He had spent most of the past day pondering whether to tell Sherlock of his latest discovery.

Rudy gave him a considering look. “I would have to weigh my options in that event,” he said coolly. “As you pointed out, my involvement with other people, including my family, is based more on loyalty than any other emotion. So, I may well decide that your brother’s potential contributions are more important than maintaining family ties.”

“In which case I shall very likely have you killed,” Mycroft said baldly. One distant portion of his mind enjoyed the brief look of shock that rolled across his uncle’s features.

Rudy’s thoughts were startlingly transparent; Mycroft saw him consider, saw him register Mycroft’s sincerity, know that Mycroft would do exactly what he said. His final shift, his final reaction, was bewilderment.

“But why?” the old man said. “Why would you do this to me? To the one who gave you the world?”

“It’s as you said, uncle,” Mycroft replied, with a vicious sense of satisfaction. “I am as you made me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The house in Mimizan also appears in Scheherezade, when Sherlock seeks it as a refuge.
> 
> My head canon for Rudy is Jeremy Irons, with Mycroft's nose.
> 
> I thought long and hard about how much of a villain to make Rudy. In the end, though, I came down on the side of "yep, he's a Bad Guy--or at least a Machiavellian manipulator who used the Holmes kids for his own ends". And then it occurred to me that Eurus' issues might actually run in the family.


	4. Chapter Four: Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes family finally airs their dirty laundry, and Mycroft is both appalled and relieved. But, before he can relax and regroup, he has one last unexpected conversation.

It was quite late when Mycroft finally reached his private quarters at the Diogenes—late enough, in fact, that he couldn’t face the idea of returning to his townhouse, when this place was so much closer. The meeting with his parents had been both horrifying and humiliating, and had been followed by the most agonizing “family dinner” in recorded history. He then needed to make a stop by his office, to check on the items neglected because of his familial duties. All he wanted now was a stiff brandy, comfortable pajamas, and his bed.

What he got, of course, was his baby brother, curled on the sofa with his coat wrapped around him.

“You’re not asleep, not really,” he said, and Sherlock sighed, stretched, and sat up, looking fashionably rumpled. Mycroft often wondered how he accomplished that; Mycroft would have just looked creased and untidy.

“I wanted to be,” Sherlock sighed. “But then, that’s been the case for most of this evening.” He raised his eyebrows. “Can you deny that it probably would have been best? Mummy has informed me, in a series of increasingly-irate texts, that they expect me to appear promptly, Friday next, to take them privately to dinner to atone for my ‘frankly appalling behavior’ at the restaurant.”

“Mmm,” Mycroft said. “What a shame. And just when you had had your status as ‘the grown-up’ officially confirmed.”

“Ah well, we both know it wouldn’t have lasted. I figured I might as well set things straight from the outset,” his brother said, with a theatrical sigh. He sobered quickly, though, running his hands roughly over his face before continuing.

“Am I to presume that you saw Rudy?” he asked.

Mycroft flinched, minutely, before he could stop it. Sherlock, officially the Second-Most-Observant Man in the World, of course saw, and looked on with surprise.

“I…yes, I did,” Mycroft stammered, while Sherlock’s eyebrows crept back up under his fringe. “But I need your promise on something, before I tell you about it. I mean this, Sherlock.”

“If I can,” Sherlock replied. “Even I have my limits, though, so be aware that I will not agree to hide anything more concerning our sister.”

“Oh, no,” Mycroft said, “of course not. This concerns you, and you alone. You must promise me, you must _swear_ , that if Rudy contacts you at any point, in any fashion, you will tell me instantly, _before_ you respond.”

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “I am not afraid of Uncle Rudy,” he said firmly. “Not anymore.”

“Well, I am,” Mycroft said, and was mildly pleased to see Sherlock’s startled expression. “And you should be, as well. I won’t bore you with the entire conversation, but leave it at this—I have confirmed that your supposition was correct. I have carved out a tentative compact, of a sort, that will remove him permanently from our professional orbit. But he has expressed an… _interest_ in you, and that cannot be a good thing.”

Sherlock snorted. “Have you _met_ me? I wouldn’t piss on Rudy Vernet if he was on fire.”

That…that was a little startling, actually. “I never realized you felt that strongly about him,” Mycroft said uncertainly. “I was unaware that you had ever had much contact after you reached adulthood.”

“You mean, other than the time he tried to convince me to come back to MI6 when I was 23, and sweetened the deal by promising to supply me with the highest-quality drugs throughout?” Sherlock asked drily.

Mycroft had to tamp down the rage that roared through him at that revelation. Sherlock noticed nonetheless.

“He didn’t tell you?” he asked, uncertain in his turn. “I thought…he told me you had discussed it. It was the reason I refused to return to rehab—it was hypocritical of you to try to make me go, while simultaneously setting up a pipeline to keep me using when I worked.”

The rage was back, incandescent now, to the point where Mycroft found himself striding furiously around the room, while Sherlock blinked at him from the couch. Sherlock, after several minutes’ observation, opened his mouth to speak.

“ _Don’t_ ,” Mycroft snapped. Sherlock’s mouth closed, though not without an aggrieved huff.

Finally, finally, Mycroft’s heart rate slowed, and he could once again think without the red haze bleeding through his thoughts. He found himself utterly exhausted, and sat, not very gracefully, on the couch next to his brother before dropping his head into his hands.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Sherlock ventured, after a brief period of silence. “He lied to both of us, apparently. He’s very good at it.”

“Yes, he is,” Mycroft sighed. “What _is_ my fault is allowing myself to not see him as he really is for a very, very long time. In retrospect, there are many questions I should have asked that I allowed myself to avoid, because I could not have lived with the answers. At least, not lived as Rudy’s protégé any longer.”

“Well. You’re a bit past the ‘protégé’ stage now, surely?” Sherlock asked, not unkindly.

Mycroft gave a startled chuckle. “You would think so, wouldn’t you? But Rudy still views me very much in that light.” He paused, then continued. “Although, after our conversation, I suspect he will have reconsidered.” He paused again, debating with himself. Then—“I told him I would have him killed if he tried to recruit you.”

Sherlock jerked his head around, eyes wide. “That seems a trifle extreme,” he said hesitantly. “Especially given your past fondness for him.”

“I discovered that the fondness was one-sided, given his limitations,” Mycroft said, thinking it through as he said it. “I find it tempers any loss I may have felt at the severing of that connection. And any hesitation on my part was swept away entirely when he threatened me with, first, a personal reprisal—endangering my relationship with Mummy—and second, an attack on you. I have no doubt that he meant both of them. The threat to you was particularly blatant—he lost his temper, clearly, and showed his full hand. He intended you as a replacement for Eurus.”

“Would he have locked me up as well?” Sherlock said coolly. “I think even he would have found that a tad difficult to explain to Mummy.”

“Ironically, I suspect he hadn’t thought about it,” Mycroft said. “As I said—he lost his temper.”

Mycroft rose, not without difficulty, and went to pour both of them stiff glasses of brandy. Sherlock looked askance at his. “I’ll get drunk very quickly,” he said. “My medication will magnify the effect.”

“It’s not enough to harm you. And I need to tell you the rest of it,” Mycroft said simply. “Being drunk will be a positive, believe me.”

 

 

 

Sherlock was telling the truth: he did, indeed, get very drunk, very quickly. His reactions to Rudy’s heartless manipulations, his treatment of Eurus, the lies, the threats, were all dampened, though not eliminated. In the end, Mycroft elected not to bring up Rudy’s role in Sherlock’s disastrous last mission—his brother had quite enough to deal with, without bringing up old grief that was still a source of pain.

When Sherlock’s eyes started to slide closed, Mycroft helped his brother up and chivvied him into the utilitarian bedroom, stripping off his jacket, shoes and socks before tucking him underneath the duvet. Then he turned to his own clothes, deciding that a shower could wait until morning. He pulled on a pair of comfortable sleeping trousers and an elderly t-shirt, then went to the en suite to brush his teeth.

When he came out, he was startled to see Sherlock looking at him owlishly from the bed. “I’m sorry about Rudy,” he slurred.

Mycroft blinked, not sure what his brother meant. “What?”

“I never liked him,” Sherlock said, in the peculiar, childlike fashion common to the heavily inebriated. “I didn’t understand why he liked you, but didn’t like me. And I couldn’t understand why you liked someone who was so wrong inside; why couldn’t you see it?” He yawned, then continued. “But I know you wanted to be him, and now you can’t.” A crease appeared between his eyes, just as it had done when he was 3, or 12, or 20.

Mycroft found himself completely at a loss. He hoped to God that Sherlock wouldn’t remember this conversation tomorrow, for both their sakes.

“I’m…I suppose you could say I’m glad I’m not ‘him’, now,” he said, with complete honesty. “As someone wiser than both of us has said, I was a child, and Rudy took advantage of that. And because it started when I was a child, it took me a very long time to see it.”

“Rudy’s not a nice man,” Sherlock said solemnly.

Mycroft suppressed an urge to laugh. “No, he’s not.”

“Probably shouldn’t have him killed, though,” Sherlock said, his voice growing blurrier as his eyes slid to half-mast. “You wouldn’t like it.”

“Very true,” Mycroft said. “Go to sleep.”

“M’kay,” Sherlock mumbled. He was quiet momentarily, then—“Feet of clay,” he said, nodding wisely.

This time, Mycroft did laugh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got to thinking about it, and realized that this conversation MUST have happened--neither of the Holmes boys could have let that kind of meeting go by without rehashing it afterward. And it makes sense that they would have both wanted to lick their respective wounds together--who else could they go to, after all?

**Author's Note:**

> The bit with Infant Sherlock "squeaking"? That's my younger son. He was a preemie as well, though not as early as Sherlock. But I vividly remember driving along the freeway with him in the back in his car seat, howling at the top of his lungs--and still being easily able to hear the song playing on the radio. (Hard to realize that now, given that he's 18 and 6'2"!)


End file.
